A Universe of Multiple Sherlocks
by sharmini
Summary: John Watson finds himself in a peculiar situation and is far from amused. Punching ensues. And some not unpleasant things as as well.


This came about after reading an excellent Merlin/ Arthur fic about time travel. It was awesome and suddenly my Muses decided to write a version of it. For Sherlock.

Grammar mistakes are mine. I apologise. As are the medical inaccuracies. As well as for the wibbly-wobbly-ness.

Sherlock is not mine.

* * *

"Oh, hell! What does _that_ matter?! So we go around the sun! If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference! All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain rots. Put _that_ in your blog - or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"

The silence was thick and suffocating. Yet another line crossed.

"I'm going out." John grabs his jacket and leaves, not even bothering to look at Sherlock. Sure, he has put up with a lot worse from Sherlock…

No, he hasn't.

The blog was important to John. Yet another tangible proof that he was healing. No psychosomatic limp, no shaking hands and regaining the ability to write. Even when while he was school, John had enjoyed writing. Alongside the clarinet, it was his creative outlet. To have Sherlock say all those things…it felt like something precious was taken apart and ripped to shreds in front of him.

Inflicting his views indeed. So says the man who tops his acquaintances' list of smartarse and people likely to be punched in the face.

John crossed the street and turned the corner, his angry thoughts racing a million miles around his mind. He has killed for Sherlock; no doubt he would do it again. But sometimes Sherlock invites assassination attempts on himself whenever he opens his mouth. While John appreciates Sherlock's honesty at all times, it does not mean he is capable of putting up with any bullshit from him at any times. He just wished…

_Nothing. _

John wished for nothing.

Except for some dinner and good company.

He was not surprised to find himself before Sarah's building. A bottle of red wine, conversations late into the night (which was mostly an exchange on the outrageous symptoms seen on patients, for a moment, it also became a competition) and John found himself falling asleep on the sofa. The next thing he knew, he was waking to the sound of a door closing shut.

* * *

John opened his eyes, blinking his sleep away. A military man, he was not one for dawdling in bed. He swung his legs to the floor and that was when it struck.

Ceiling with the cracks that converged into an outline of a toast.

Pyjamas.

Quilt.

Hardwood floor.

Home.

He was home.

More specifically, he was in his room.

How did he get into his room?

When did he get into his room?

When did he get back from Sarah's?

And when did his bed have extra pillows?

Or the left side looked slept in?

Another series of sounds, the familiar sounds of breakfast being prepared, propelled John towards the kitchen. Sunlight was streaming into the flat, unusually bright for the last days of autumn, its warm glow the antithesis of the chilly morning.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, in his shirtsleeves, bustling about getting breakfast ready, looking utterly ridiculous in a red polka dot apron.

"Good morning," Sherlock greeted, with a wave of the spatula in his hand, and a smile that is as disarming as the polka dot apron, when he sees John at the doorway. "Breakfast will be ready in a tick." He turned to the sizzling pan on the stove, transferred the scrambled eggs into a plate that already has two pieces of toast in the shade of gold and crispness that is favourable to John. He put the plate on the table, beckoning John to take his seat. "Have you got clinic today?" He turned back to the counter, busying himself with the kettle.

John thought for a while, mentally wondering what day it was…Wednesday. "Not until the afternoon."

"Well, I have to be at Bart's until two," Sherlock said, as he hands John a mug of tea. "You do remember that we are expected at Mycroft's this evening?" He pulled out a chair at the table and sits down, waiting John to take his place opposite him. The plate of scrambled eggs and toast waited for John, its aroma tantalizing. John takes a sip of tea, wishing for something stronger. There was something wrong here. He glances at Sherlock, who was looking at him steadily above the rim of his mug as he drinks his tea, before quickly dropping his gaze to his breakfast.

Something was out of place…

He picks up the fork laid out on the table next to his plate…

The table was immaculate.

_What the hell? _

The table in the kitchen that functioned mostly as a work bench for Sherlock's experiment and chemistry sets was now, in all intents and purpose, an actual kitchen table, not just by name only. There were no experiments, no solutions in reagents and no body parts soaking in ether. The kitchen table was a proper kitchen table, albeit with some scuffs and scratches and what looked like treated chemical spills, with benches on either side for seats.

"John? Are you going to let it go cold?"

John looked from the table to Sherlock. He wanted to ask what happened to the experiments. But Sherlock's phone rang at that moment. Sherlock picked the phone from an equally flawless kitchen counter. As he answered it, he gestured John to eat. He walked into the living room to take the call.

John stares down at his plate, moving is fork around the scrambled eggs, still piping hot. Something was not right.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock stands by the doorway to the kitchen, looking at John, his mobile in hand.

"Yeah. Fine. Thanks." John looks at Sherlock, assembling a smile unto his face.

"Are you sure? You look…"

John wanted to lash out and ask who the doctor and the asshole was between them was, but he refrained himself. "I have tea," he says instead, holding up his mug of tea, maintaining that smile that is fake. "I'll be fine."

Sherlock holds John's gaze. "If you say so," he replies, but it does not sound as if he is convinced. He steps into the kitchen and rounds the table to take a seat next to John. "Do you want me to call Sarah and tell her you are unwell? I could stay as well…"

The thought of keeping Sherlock away from his experiments at Bart's was unthinkable. And probably would be hazardous to the walls as well. "Sherlock, I am fine. Finish your tea and go wherever it is you have to go. I'm just a little tired, that's all."

"Okay." Of course he does not finish his tea. He merely fetches his mug from where he had left it on the table and takes it to the sink, disposing the lukewarm beverage and rinsing out the mug. As he did so, John takes a tentative bite of the scrambled eggs. It was good, delicious…

But…

Something was not right.

Sherlock ties his scarf around his neck and slips into his coat. He looked as if he was sulking, or was about to sulk and John…well, John did not have the strength to deal with it just yet. Maybe later, he'll talk to Sherlock about it…like reminding Sherlock that he owes John an apology over the remark about the blog…but now…John just wanted to figure out what was bothering him.

Sherlock picks up a few things from the table in the living room, which was in its usual state of mess on his side, and pockets them. He walks into the kitchen again; his mobile phone was on the table. He picks it up, puts a hand on John's shoulder, squeezing it and in a move that stuns John, kisses the top of his head. If John was not frozen with surprise, he would have tackled Sherlock to the ground and punched his face. Sherlock did not say anything; he just left the flat, leaving John with his eyes wide and holding the fork of scrambled eggs in midair between the plate and his mouth.

And when Sherlock calls out, "Bye, love," from the landing outside their flat, the fork clatters on to the plate.

* * *

It was a joke.

It has to be.

Sherlock was bored and has decided to play a joke on John.

Well, John was not going to have any of it. He is going to shoot Sherlock in the leg and then tell him to quit it.

John abandons his breakfast and goes into the living room. The yellow smiley face with the grotesque bullet hole smile unnerves him. John looks away and turns around the flat, hoping to see how far Sherlock has gone with this stupid joke. Clearing out the kitchen table was one and elaborate in itself, but Sherlock would have gone for details to make sure his joke was sound and solid. Sherlock does not do anything by halves…

When did he get back from Sarah's?

Was he drugged?

That was probably it.

_Fuck it all. _

He was drugged.

It was no wonder he felt all…wrong this morning.

Sherlock Holmes has a bullet with his name on it.

_Right on his shins. _

_Smartarse. _

That was settled then. The joke, whatever the fuck the joke had been, had been unravelled, no one was laughing and John was pissed off. He could call and yell at Sherlock, but not yet. He would yell at him after he shoots the bastard.

John sits down on his armchair, surveying the room. Skull, one Persian slipper by the fireplace, books, maps, laptops, wedding photos…

John frowned. He does not remember attending any wedding recently. Nor does he remember going to one with Sherlock. He stands up again for a closer look at the two framed photographs on the mantelpiece. John picked up one of the frame, something that looked both old and expensive, and looked at the picture.

They were standing in a group, John and Sherlock flanked by Lestrade, Harry (_Harry? What was Harry doing in their social group?_), Mrs Hudson and Molly, laughing, with bits of confetti on their heads and clothes.

_What party was this? _

And why is Sherlock so smug and happy about in the photo?

And why was John grinning like an idiot?

_When was this…?_

_And Harry? What is Harry doing…? _

It is getting more likely that someone whose name is Sherlock Holmes is getting his leg shot at this evening.

This was good Photoshop work, but in bad taste and John wished he could break something. He looked at the frame in his hand.

"Hello, love," Mrs Hudson coos as she knocks on the door and enters without waiting for permission.

"Mrs Hudson?" John looks at the landlady as she unloads the groceries on to the kitchen table. She must be on the joke as well because she did not even blink when she saw the table, though she did click her tongue when she saw John's half eaten breakfast. The fact that the table was so clean and flat surfaces so readily available did not seem to perturb her.

"Yes, love?"

"Whose wedding is this? The one in the photo? The one Sherlock and I attended? You were there as well." John brings the frame for evidence.

Mrs Hudson stops unloading packets of pasta and looks at John. She glances at the frame in John's hand and starts laughing.

"John," she admonishes, shaking her head. "That's your wedding, of course."

"My wedding?!" John's tone must have taken on a high pitched whingeing because Mrs Hudson stops laughing and frowns at John.

"February 13th," she says, her frown was no longer that of concern, but one that was bordering on irritation.

John grits his teeth, taking a deep breath, tightening his grasp on the frame.

"To Sherlock."

"Enough! This has gone far too long!" John yells. He slams down the frame on the stupid kitchen table and leaves the kitchen. He has had enough. Joke's over.

* * *

_If it's convenient, could you please come back to the flat? _

_J_

_If it's inconvenient, come back anyway. _

_J _

_And I am pretty sure that I neither married you. Or am your husband. _

_J _

* * *

"Right. I get it. It's Red Nose Day. The National Let's Piss Off John Day. April Fool's Day…"

"It's October, dear."

"Whatever," John snapped. And immediately felt guilty. He was back in the living room; his mobile phone was a wreck in his bedroom. He had sent the messages to Sherlock when he saw the bed; too many pillows and the left side was obviously Sherlock's (books and papers on the bedside table, violin leaning against it)…it was all a little too much for John to take in. And of course, after sending the messages, he saw the bed again…

Saw how determined Sherlock was ensuring the joke was a success.

John hated it. He hated Sherlock with such ferocity at that moment…

He flung the phone to the floor and stomped out of the room. Mrs Hudson had been standing in the middle of the living room, looking rather worried.

"Everyone's had a good laugh, Mrs Hudson," Johns says, rubbing his face. "Ha ha, the joke's up. John Watson is not amused. Let's drop it."

"Whatever are you talking about, Doctor Watson?" Mrs Hudson looked positively distressed, for John. For herself, more likely.

"It's all very clever. The photos. Getting you in the joke. The clean table," John gestures to the table.

"Getting me into what joke?" Mrs Hudson asks a hand over heart. "And what is wrong with the clean table? You cleaned it the first time. And threatened to shoot anyone who as much as put a cup of tea on it without a coaster."

John thought about it for a moment. Yes, he had always threatened that. But the table remained the mess it was. To go from that sort of mess to this…

And that was when John realized that he was fixated on the wrong thing. What he should be concerned about was the kiss Sherlock sprung on him less than hour ago. It was a chaste little thing, but kissing? The act itself…was all wrong.

_That has crossed into freak territory…_

_The kiss was…_

"Doctor Watson? John?" Mrs Hudson tentatively touches John's shoulder.

"Yes?" John's voice had a mellow quality about it before he quickly composes himself and arranges his expression into an irritated frown before gruffly snapping, "Yes?"

"Are you having…a little domestic with Sherlock?" she asks, her voice gentle.

John opens his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted. "No, Mrs Hudson. We are not."

John looks up. Sherlock was at the doorway, looking at John.

"We are not having a domestic," Sherlock says entering the flat. He holds John's gaze. "And that is not my John."

And that was when John punched Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on his armchair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his face a marble mask of indifference, looking as dignified as he could with a bruised right eye. The bruise was now an ugly shade of reddish – purple and must be hurting like a bitch.

_Good_.

Stupid joke and all he says is, _that's not my John_. _Idiot. What is he, a streetwalker?_

_That is not my John. _

It bloody well hurts.

Because Sherlock did not apologize for the joke.

And John is not his…pimp.

_That is not my John. _

Not only does Sherlock play a stupid on joke him, he then pushes him aside. Just like that.

_That is not my John. _

The silence stretched from the moment the punch was delivered, Mrs Hudson stifling a scream and then declaring herself feeling faint, rushes out of the flat, clutching the front of her blouse. Sherlock straightened up, wipes his bleeding nose on a crisp white handkerchief, declares nothing was broken and takes a seat on the armchair. And has remained silent and seated for almost ten minutes. And remained so smugly in control that John wanted to punch him again.

"Very convincing joke."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Excellent Photoshop work. And getting Mrs Hudson in it, good for you."

"Not a joke." He turned, his cerulean gaze locking into John's. His voice was steel, reflected in the ice in his eyes. "It's not a joke."

"Sure feels like it to me," John replied, making his tone as biting as possible.

"Our marriage is not a joke," Sherlock said, his eyes averted again. "At least to me."

John sighs, his breath escaping sharply. "Then what is this, Sherlock? Why are you doing this…"

"A stroke..."

Of course. It has to be his bloody fault. "I will punch you again."

"What is the last thing you remember?"

John takes a deep breath, not bothering to conceal just how pissed he really is. "Going over to Sarah's. I fell asleep on her couch."

"Sarah? Your colleague?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Last evening. When you were being a dick. Again."

Sherlock's looks up sharply at John. He lowers his hands and regards John, inscrutable emotions behind his gaze. John thought he had a good read on Sherlock, but it was proving to be naught. Sherlock looked as if he was holding himself back, giving the room to John. This was not Sherlock in his deep thought mode. This was Sherlock…being wary.

"Last evening we…" Sherlock began. And then falls quiet.

Another first, John thinks. Sherlock going all quiet during mid-sentence. Some region of Hell must be experiencing freakish weather.

"Tell me what happened last evening," Sherlock asked, his voice quiet. John would have yelled again, but there was earnestness, a pleading, in Sherlock's eyes. It made John pause for a moment.

_Maybe this was a dream…_

_A freaky one. _

Where he is married to Sherlock.

_Oh God. _

"I think I will wake up now," John said out aloud, never mind Sherlock looks at him as if some form restraints and tranquilizers were needed.

"It's not a dream, John," Sherlock said, sounding as cautious as he looked. "I am here."

"Of course. Good. But I am done." As if to emphasize the point, John got up from his seat. "See you on the other side."

"John." Sherlock captures John's arm, his fingers tightening in an urgency that made John look from Sherlock's hand on his arm to Sherlock.

John felt drained. This had gone for too long. He wanted this, whatever this was to end. Or if it was a dream, he just wanted to wake up. "Look, Sherlock…"

"I am married to Dr John Hamish Watson. I married Dr Watson in February this year…"

"Enough, Sherlock! That is enough!" John tried to wrench his arm away, but Sherlock kept his grip on him.

"I love Dr John Watson and I would never even think of making a joke out of marriage," Sherlock said, speaking as fast as he could, as if he was afraid of running out of time. "With all due respect, John, I know my John. You are him, but I know my John. You are not him."

John decided that he is going to punch Sherlock again and his time, he is going break his nose. "Let. Me. Go."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, risking his nose and his face by just prolonging this conversation. John balled up his left fist. It will be one spectacular punch. "Tell me exactly what happened yesterday."

"You were being the stupid fuck that you always are. I got irritated and left for Sarah's. And woke this morning in our…MY room," John yelled at Sherlock, because he wanted to yell at him. "Now. Bloody let me go or I swear to God, Sherlock, I will kill you."

"The last time you went over to Sarah's was two years ago. There was an explosion on the flat opposite ours. I was injured when debris struck our flat…" At the sight of John scoffing, Sherlock released his grip on John's arms and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. He pulls the shirt aside, exposing pale skin, unblemished save for the pink, puckered line that slashes from his left shoulder to mid-sternum. John frowns and quite involuntarily turns so that he may be able to face Sherlock. He raises his hand and touches the scar. Sherlock looks ahead, his jaw set in a grim line.

"It's…it's real," John said, looking at Sherlock, swallowing. It was a real scar, the raised skin warm against his finger.

"Of course it is," Sherlock said, a touch of irritation in his voice. He let his shirt drop back over his chest, prompting John to quickly remove his hand from the general vicinity of Sherlock's person. "I am Sherlock Holmes. and I am real as well. I think I know what has happened here. Now shut up, sit down and listen."

* * *

"You do realise that this sounds very much like an episode Doctor Who?"

"Doctor What?"

"No. Who? Never mind. Of course you wouldn't know what Doctor Who is. Deleted it from your superior brain, I suppose."

"Is this how you cope? By blabbing about inconsequentially?"

"Oh, shut up. I'm from a different dimension? I don't know if I should laugh or punch you again."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, as he would whenever he could not come up with a suitable answer or reply to someone. It has all the inflections of a person not wanting to continue the argument or discussion with someone whom they obviously think is beneath their superior intellect. To John, it was always marks the beginning of a sulk. That would mean that Sherlock would be more trying than he already is.

"Enough with the punching. It's not helping anyone," Sherlock replied, in a bored voice that was just asking for another punch to be delivered to his face.

"It's helping me." John could not help the grin on his face.

"Go on then."

"Are you inviting me to punch you?" Because John was more than willing to give it a go.

"No! I want to know your explanation to this situation."

"It's stupid fucking joke and you have taken it so far, Sherlock, that…that I don't think I'd ever be able to forgive you." John's voice grew quiet.

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes bright sparks of blue. It was the sort of look Sherlock had when something intrigued him enough. "You've known me for a long time…wherever you are from?"

John rolled his eyes. He was determined to keep this up, that stupid fool. "Nine months," John replied and wondered why he bothered.

"Have I shown any propensity towards practical jokes? Or running a long con?"

It was the first thing Sherlock had said that was as close to normal as one can get in 221B. "No."

It was as if that was the answer Sherlock had waited for. His expression and voice were icy when he spoke. "Then what makes you think this is a joke? Or I would joke about something like this?"

"Because…" John began, wanting to point out that Sherlock was a git who had no idea how to deal with another human, but he was interrupted.

"If you think that my marriage with Doctor John Watson and our living arrangement is a joke, I would suggest that you think again before you say another word." The ice in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable and suddenly John's conviction began to waver just a little bit.

"It's just that…"

"Wherever you are from…"

"London. I am from London. It looks exactly like this." John felt like a fool just saying those words, but he did not like Sherlock's dismissive tone. John was a victim.

"London. Fine." And it was all John could do not to jump at Sherlock and throttle the life out of him. "I suppose there is someone like me from the London you came from…" Of course, he is going to start shooting someone. Perhaps, just as a warning, he is going to shoot the wall.

"Not the London I came from, just London. And yes, YOU are there."

"And this version of me…is…is…"

"A dick."

"I can assure you I am not him. As much as I can assure you that you are not my husband. And don't ask how I know. If your Sherlock is anything like me, he'll no doubt, know everything about you whether you knew it or not, so there is nothing I can tell you to convince you otherwise. Even the few things I can would no doubt put you in a punching mood again. so, I shall refrain from mentioning them. It's not your right hook that I am afraid of, but the fact that I do not think my husband would not appreciate it me sharing with someone, regardless if the person looks exactly like him."

"Aren't you worried about your husband?"

"Exceedingly so. But the moment I realised you are not my husband, I knew something beyond the comprehension of any known laws of science and physics has taken place. My poor husband is probably where you are now. I just have to figure out what brought you here and then try to do something to reverse the process."

"You are convinced this is right, aren't you?"

"As opposed to your theory that a version of me is playing an elaborate joke on you? What kind of an idiot is he? Don't answer me. I dislike him already."

"He's not that bad really."

"No. I think he is most hideous, if you believe, and you do seem quite convinced of it, that he could pull off a joke…a hoax like this."

John frowned. It was one thing John thinking and saying Sherlock was all kinds of git, but he never could allow anyone else to say anything against Sherlock. Even if the person looked exactly like Sherlock. Or perhaps it is Sherlock himself. It was disturbing.

Suddenly the day had gone on for far too long John. His head began to hurt, or he began to realise it was hurting. He needed to lie down for a bit, close his eyes…

And perhaps wake up to find Sherlock being a git instead of all earnest like he was.

"I…"

"You need rest," Sherlock said, getting up from his seat. John noticed that there were drops of blood on the sleeve of his jacket and on the collar of his pale blue shirt. "You may use the…

"I'll just crash out here." John was quick to his feet, interrupting Sherlock. "The sofa is fine."

"No," Sherlock replied. "I'll be working in the living room. You'll just get in the way."

"Of course. Someone else taking a nap would bother you," John remarks, rolling his eyes.

"You'll be uncomfortable."

John wanted to argue, but he was tired. He has had enough of thinking and of Sherlock and his presence that is overwhelming him…

_Married. Husband. _

"Right. Room. Thank you," John said, quickly dismissing all errant thoughts. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then found he had nothing to say anyway. He closed his mouth and turned, heading out of the room with the man who can be as irritating in any dimension.

And of course, the very thought of other dimensions set John's teeth on edge. John walks away as quickly as he could, unclenching his fists, before he punches Sherlock again.

* * *

He could not sleep. Even when his drowsiness got the better of him, images and sounds so horrifying kept him up.

In the end, he did not know if he was sleeping or awake.

* * *

"I thought you said we are expected at Mycroft's?"

John peered into the kitchen. Sherlock was standing near the sink, taking a pause from his pacing, looking at nothing in particular.

"I did, yes," he answers, not looking away from his study of the wallpaper. "But that engagement was for me and John, Doctor Watson. So, I cancelled. I cannot and would not impose my brother's presence upon you."

John fully steps into the kitchen. He had showered and changed, to his surprise the wardrobe revealed his exact collection of clothes. He started to wonder, but then stopped himself. He was looking for answers, not a migraine. He changed into a familiar oatmeal jumper, and almost berated himself for being far too happy with the familiarity of it.

"I'm used to your brother's company actually," John said, moving towards the counter, a cup of tea in mind.

"Oh?" Sherlock sounded almost interested. He did not move when John went towards the sink to fill the kettle. While he was quite used to Sherlock's lack of adhering to personal space (a trait that is only exhibited with John, everyone else has to stand at a certain distance and crossing over the imaginary boundary is unthinkable), this time, there was a tinge of…

_Discomfort_…

No. not discomfort.

_Awareness_.

It is not as if John has never been aware of Sherlock. But this time, well, this time it was a bit different. It's not just Sherlock. But this is the man he…

_No. John Watson of this place…_

_Whatever_.

…is married to. Sherlock is the husband to some version, a photocopy perhaps, of John.

It was disconcerting.

"I also know Lestrade, Molly, Anderson, Donovan…" John decided speaking was the best option now, thinking was getting complicated.

"Yes, of course you would have them there as well," Sherlock said, still standing where he was (he had turned to face John), which made it rather difficult for John to fill the kettle with water. In any case, he did not feel like drinking tea. He wanted, needed, something stronger.

"Where I come from is my reality, alright?" John spoke, probably sounding a lot more idiotic than he would care to admit. "There is no there and here. I have only that one place. Now uncancel the plans and let's go see your brother."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. He must have caught the look on John's face because he not only held his peace, but stepped aside to allow John to fill the kettle and put it on the stove. John turned the gas on and went towards the table, just to put some distance between himself and Sherlock. Moments later, Sherlock finally spoke, "No. We are not going."

"I suppose we will be watching episodes of beloved science-fiction shows to find an answer to our predicament?" John remarks, turning to look for mugs, tea bags, anything so that he would not have to face Sherlock's intense look on him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says, pushing away from the counter. "We are going to map out what we know and see what I can do about the whole situation."

"You? Who died and put you in charge?" The snarky response just tumbled out of John's mouth.

Sherlock did a very Sherlock eye-roll. As in Sherlock-of-this-place did a very John's-Sherlock eyeroll. John's brows furrowed when he thought of the universe with multiple Sherlocks in existence.

Or perhaps it was just strange thinking that of all the Sherlocks in existence (if they were going down the sci-fi route), one of them belonged to John.

_Huh_.

Disconcerting.

_But_…

It was not, by any means, too unpleasant.

John mentally slapped himself.

_Nope. Stop it. _

"A pot of strong tea," Sherlock said, heading out of the kitchen. John stared after him, not really surprised that this one had an aversion to domestic chores as well. "And some biscuits. I am feeling rather peckish."

"Get your own…"

"We'll map it out on the wall…" Sherlock was already ignoring him, as he began shuffling through some papers on his side of the desk.

John did a very John – like groan of despair and tiredness and went on to prepare the tea according to how Sherlock liked it. Sherlock was already deep into his 'thinking'. John searched the tins for the biscuits and found only chocolate chip ones. The whole thing seemed a little too comfortable, if not a little too domestic, never mind how improbable it really is.

This time John decided not to dismiss the feeling. It was for the similar comfort that John chose to stay on as Sherlock's flatmate. Why should he ignore that feeling, something that feels right and true to him?

The only thing that felt wrong at that moment was the lack of Jammy Dodgers, Sherlock's favourite biscuits.

John took the tea tray into the living room and joined Sherlock in his absurd '_dimension travel investigation'_.

* * *

He did not know when he fell asleep. But sleep was not the peaceful slumber that had come easily for him in the last few months. This time, it was a torment of voices and what could only be muscles spasms.

"…_not stable…"_

"…_more painkillers..."_

"…_hates it…"_

John tried to tear himself from the dream, to wake up and open his eyes, but his dreams…they were too strong, they kept his eyes opened (or closed) to the harsh lights that blinded him.

"…_no option…in a lot of pain…"_

"…_know what's best John…"_

"…_the doctors are trying to help…"_

"…_trying is not good enough…"_

"…_let them…"_

John gasped for breath, his whole being smothered by a chill that was familiar to him.

Death…

He tried to scream, to shout, to speak, to move but he could not…

He was drowning….

"…_cardiac arrest…"_

"…_second time…second time…" _

When John found his voice, it was not surprising when he shouted, "Sherlock!"

Everything went silent.

* * *

And then, the familiar warmth on his arm.

"John."

* * *

The assurance that everything is a dream. That everything is well again.

The smothering chill dissipated, calmness washed over him.

Funny how a voice can literally bring him back from the dead.

Funny how that voice belongs to the man he wants to kill on a daily basis.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes opened, this time the hues were warm and soothing. Sherlock's concerned face came into view.

"You were…quite lost there for a bit," he said, uncharacteristically lost for word.

"No. No. I'm back." John was quick to reassure him.

Sherlock's eyebrow gave a twitch and John felt that he had better explain things before Sherlock got the wrong idea. "I mean, it's still me. Not your…husband."

"Yes. I doubt any switch could have taken place while you were under observation."

"Observation?"

"You fell asleep an hour fifteen minutes into our discussion…"

"You were doing most of the talking, I remember."

"Yes. Well. In any case, you fell asleep. And it is rude to do when someone is talking…stop it! This is not a time for teasing!"

John laughed. It felt good to laugh; felt even better to get Sherlock all irritated…quite a role reversal that.

"So, nothing happened?" John asked, sitting up from the sofa, rubbing the kinks from his neck. Sherlock got up and sat on the coffee table. John wondered if he had been sitting there while 'observing' him, and found himself not wanting to know.

"No. You were a bit restless though," Sherlock said, hands together and fingers steepled under his chin. "Bad dreams?"

John looked at Sherlock. "It's nothing."

And they both knew he was lying.

"Dinner?"

"Italian?" Sherlock asked, looking just a bit hopeful, making John wonder if it was a test of some sort.

"Sure. Yeah."

It was obviously the correct answer, because Sherlock practically beamed. " A bit late but…"

"I am sure the owner will accommodate you. Owes you a favour, probably."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"If you keep this up…"

"What?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, possibly trying not to get too riled up with John's excessive use of questions to interrupt him.

"Interrupting me with facts about me."

"Ah."

"As flattering as it is, I do feel I am running on empty when I am trying my best to impress you."

John tried not to be too surprised when he heard Sherlock.

_Flirting? _

God. How could he know? It is not as if John is an expert in flirting…or an expert in Sherlock.

"Why would you want to do that?" John asked, his tone cautious, as Sherlock gets up from the coffee table and goes to grab their coats.

Sherlock's smile was devastatingly devilish when he said, "Why ever not?"

John decided that the wise thing to do would be to shut up.

* * *

Dinner was a normal event, the walk home comfortable and the good night much longer than necessary. Sherlock went back to the notes on the wall, John into the bedroom.

_I could get used to being here…_

* * *

Sherlock watched John, his eyes taking in the irregular breathing, the pallor of his skin and the rapid movements behind his eyelids. There were so many facts he could deduce about John (even if he had not the privilege of knowing him), but none of it mattered. Because the only thing Sherlock did not know was how the doctors have concluded that John was dying.

_As if John could die. _

_As if John would die. _

Sherlock had decided that he will treat this particular event in his life, as he would anything else. Just because it was John in the hospital, it does not mean Sherlock Holmes can be less than who he usually. It was a time for Sherlock to step up, really, regardless of what his brother or landlady think.

The person responsible for the blast has been found and apparently had been duly dealt with. The police found a John Doe in the River Thames, reported in by an anonymous call. The John Doe's fingerprints were traced to a partial in the remnant and debris from the bomb blast. He was identified via Interpol as a terrorist from a South American organisation. The name Moriarty came up, but Sherlock Holmes had decided the trail was dead. No one held it against him, they knew he had bigger things to deal with.

And despite not getting hurt from the bomb blast, Sherlock Holmes had not left the hospital since going in three days ago. Anyone who knew him knew he was by John's side all the time. Anyone who knew him knew not to force him to do otherwise. Mycroft was the only one able to get any sort of response from Sherlock and even that was not much. But they all knew what Sherlock knew; John was caught in the bomb blast from the flat opposite 221B. John was thrown through the glass window of the snack shop. John had not been conscious since he was taken to the hospital.

Twice his heart failed him and twice, Sherlock experienced the familiar emotional and physical pain that comes from an encounter with death. He was even tranquilised once; the medical staff at the hospital wondered how he could withstand such powerful drugs coursing through his system. They would have removed him forcibly (they had tired), but Mycroft stepped in and they backed off. It was not known what he had said to them, but they staff were visibly shaken when he left them, walking away with a neutral expression on his face.

The brothers Holmes stood in the hallway outside John's private ward, watching John through the glass. The hallway was stark and sterile, quiet save for the hushed conversations from the nurses' station a few paces away. Every time a nurse or a doctor went into John's ward, the cold, calculative sounds of the machines that (they said) kept John alive was heard. It was too loud for Sherlock to ignore.

"How far is he gone?" Mycroft spoke, his words obscene not for the implications behind them, but for the silence it shattered.

"I will get him back," Sherlock replied, his voice cold.

"Sherlock…"

"I WILL get him back."

Sherlock pretended he did not see the look of disappointment on his brother's face reflected on the glass before them. He muttered an excuse and went back inside John's ward. And in the full view of his brother, Sherlock took John's prone hand into his, as he took a seat beside John's bed.

* * *

_I could get used to being here…_

But that would mean denying Sherlock his husband. And whichever version of John Watson out there, his home and happiness and all things familiar to him.

What can I do about it?

It's not as if there was a doorway he could just walk through and swap places with that John.

If there was, John would definitely do it.

But there wasn't, so, John had to make the best that he could.

* * *

Sleep crept up to John. And along with it, the nightmares.

Getting shot in Afghanistan.

Dying. In that mud-walled hospital. and daily in a nondescript room after being sent home.

Shooting…killing the cabbie.

Getting almost killed in an abandoned train tunnel.

Leaving 221B and then…

Nothing.

Nothing but silence and smothering darkness.

He wanted to shout, again, but the strange chill that gripped him rendered words and movement impossible.

After what seemed like an eternity, or perhaps it was nothing more than the blink of an eye, a bright light penetrated the darkness. The chill persisted, but at least there was no more darkness.

Silhouettes began to take shape in the bright light. Images coalesced and John saw that it was his living room in 221B. Sherlock was in the living room, studying some papers John remembers from the previous evening. Sherlock was in his shirt sleeves, his left hand rubbing the nicotine patches on his right. On his finger was what looked like a wedding band. It was the first time John noticed it.

There was a sound, as if someone was opening a door and more images began to form in the bright light, next to the one of the living room.

This time, it was of a room that John was not familiar with…

A hospital ward.

John inhaled sharply.

A hospital ward and he was in it, lying on a bed, surrounded by machines, tubes running into his body.

And suddenly, John remembered.

The sound of an almighty thunder, the shatter of brick and glass.

John remembered.

The distant wailing of sirens. Shouts and screams.

Sherlock calling his name, unsure and frightened.

The pain…

The voices…

And then it was silent again.

The bright lights dissipated.

Darkness pervaded once again. This time John welcomed it. He knew it was more real than anything else. That was his truth.

The chill gripped him.

John knew it was time to make a choice.

John slept more soundly than he had ever had in his life. The nightmares ceased.

* * *

The first thing John was aware of when he opened his eyes was the bright light. He wondered if he had made the wrong decision when the images came into focus.

Sherlock sleeping on the uncomfortable couch, an intense expression on his face, as if he was having a particularly serious dream.

John felt thirsty, his throat parched, probably from a recently removed tube. He supposed he ought to just sit it out until someone realised that he was awake. His torso and left arm was bound with bandages. Everything felt pleasant and slightly sepia-toned; which meant he was drifting in a morphine-induced pain-free ride. He was alright for now and knew that it would be a matter of moments before one of the machines he was connected to registers the fact his vitals have changed when he woke up and alert the medical staff.

He was back. In his London. Wherever it was he was at, it was clear that he belonged here. John sighed, wondering about the universe and its multiple Sherlocks. And John Watsons. And wished nothing but happiness for the ones he had encountered. He hoped they would find each other…

That was when he started laughing. At the sheer absurdity of it all.

_Multiple Sherlocks. _

_God. _

"And what is that amuses you so?"

Sherlock was sitting up on the couch, looking at John, his gaze unwavering.

"Just remembering a strange dream I had," John replied, as Sherlock got up and came towards his bed.

"You gave everyone a scare."

"Gave you a scare, you mean."

"No. I was never scared. I knew you'd be back."

John smiled at Sherlock, now standing at the side of his bed, looking at John.

"Welcome back, John Watson."

And when he bent down and kissed his forehead, John knew he was finally home.

* * *

"He looked exactly like me, you say?"

"Yes. Mrs Hudson saw him too."

"And he was afraid of you?"

"More like he was in awe of me. Like he was in the presence of a deity."

"Right."

"What?"

"Fumes. You've been spending too much time in Bart's mortuary."

"And that is your medical explanation for this?"

"As opposed to your plot of an episode of Doctor Who? Yes."

"Mrs Hudson saw him."

"A cup too many of her evening soothers."

"Your scepticism is unbecoming of you, Doctor."

"It was probably a very realistic dream."

"He punched me."

"Hmm."

"We also had dinner. Angelo saw him. Well, Angelo probably saw you and I…"

"You had dinner with him?"

"Do I detect jealousy?"

"For a figment of your imagination? I hardly think so."

"Hmm."

"What else did you do?"

"I watched him sleep. To observe any anomalies."

"And all the while, you forgot I was in Dublin for my conference."

"I…"

"It's a case for another day, love. Come on. Let's go to bed."

"He slept in our room."

"Of course he did."

"I feel rather sorry for him."

"Why?"  
"His Sherlock sounds like his a bit of an idiot."

"Oh?"

"The oblivious kind."

"Of course."

"It's obvious that Sherlock is in love with that John Watson. It's just a matter of time before he...Sherlock, that is… pulls himself together and stops his nonsense..."

"I'm sure they will be very happy together."

"You are mocking me."

"No."

"You are."

"Sherlock, love. In all the universes and…well, timelines, I am sure we are happy together."

"You could be married to someone else."

"I could be, yes. So could you."

"Dull."

"Someone had been sleeping on my side of the bed."

"John Watson has."

"Or it could've been you. You must have missed me…"

"And slept on your side of the bed? Don't be absurd."

"I can't believe it."

"Yes. I've encountered a time traveller."

"Not that, you oblivious idiot."

"What?"

"Five minutes in the bedroom, and you still haven't kissed me!"

**THE END**


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